


Two Bits

by mini_puffs



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hair Braiding, Minor Character Death, Oneshot, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mini_puffs/pseuds/mini_puffs
Summary: "Dad's going to kill you," Wilbur says, leaning back in his chair. Any more and he’ll fall back into the ground face-first and Techno’s hands itch to grab a camera should the occasion arise. Peak blackmail material, and he’ll probably be in dire need of it soon. “You’re so fucked.”“Technoblade never dies,” is his noncommittal reply, washing out the last of the dye. The towel and his hands are stained bright pink, almost neon under the fluorescent lighting. Wilbur's probably right, but like hell he's admitting it.Or: Technoblade and hair.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 21
Kudos: 313





	Two Bits

**Author's Note:**

> title's a reference to that weird knocking jingle, shave and a haircut, two bits (five knocks, then two, google it it's cool), it got stuck in my head and therefore this happened 
> 
> also why am I so obsessed with writing about techno hair he's literally a pig lmao

It’s not exactly a secret that they’re twins.

Same height, same hair, same face, same smile. The list goes on. At least in terms of appearance. Techno’s never going to get used to people cooing over the two of them, asking unnecessary questions that make his blood boil for no reason. Wilbur doesn’t seem to mind too much but once he does, it’s free reign for him to go berserk.

Animal instincts, they say. Something in his DNA. If that’s the case, then it’s odd that his brother’s not affected. Techno spends hours poking at his teeth that only seem to get sharper over the years, his skin that grows drier and drier, his hair becoming more tangled and unmanageable like his thirst for bloodlust. 

“You should grow it out,” Wilbur remarks one day, idly brushing his hand through his hair. It’s the opposite of what everybody else has been telling him.

“Really?” Techno stares. Long hair isn’t the best for fighting—too easy to grab, pull, and snatch. Unneeded weakness.

Wilbur seems to read his mind. “You’ll be fine,” he says. His hair falls right past his ears, boyish curls framing his face. Their differences only seem to grow. “Really. I’ve seen you fight—we’ve all seen you. You can always cut it later if you want, but I think it’d be nice.”

Techno doesn’t say anything to that, but once his hair grows past his shoulders and people have stopped gawking at their relation he doesn’t need to.

* * *

He probably should’ve stopped after that, though.

“Phil’s going to kill you,” Wilbur says, leaning back in his chair. Any more and he’ll fall back into the ground face-first and Techno’s hands itch to grab a camera should the occasion arise. Peak blackmail material, and he’ll probably be in dire need of it soon. “You’re so fucked.”

“Technoblade never dies,” is his noncommittal reply, washing out the last of the dye. The towel and his hands are stained bright pink, almost neon under the fluorescent lighting. It’d been too risky to do it at home, therefore the alternative was doing it in some cheap gas station bathroom. Which was not the most hygienic method, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. Some things are worth sacrificing for the aesthetic. 

“Sure.” Wilbur shrugs and sips his slurpee, loud and obnoxious. “Didn’t you see how pissed he was when we shaved Tommy’s head though?” His tongue is blue, complementing his sweater. 

_“Shaved_ Wilbur,” Techno points out, water dripping off him. The mirror’s dirty, and he grabs a tissue to try and clear it up. What a scam, he can’t even see the final result, and considering how Wilbur is it’s probably a lost cause trying to ask him how he looks. “We shaved his hair. I’m just dying my hair, there’s a very distinct difference.” 

“There’s a very distinct difference between brown and pink.”

“Alright, get out.” 

Wilbur grins, side-stepping out of the way when Techno lunges for him. _Two minutes,_ he wants to hiss under his breath. _Two frickin’ minutes._ That’s the difference. “Uh, uh, I’ve got the key,” Wilbur sing-songs and dangles the keychain in front of him like he’s expecting him to jump up and snatch it. “You won’t be able to get home.” 

“I think it’ll actually be better if I don’t return,” Techno admits in all honesty. He stares at himself in the reflection of the key, dark bags under his eyes and a resting blank stare. The pink is too bright, glittering and it’s probably just the lights but there is _no_ way he’s coming home with that. Pink was already a stretch and he trudges to the sink to wash the worst of it out.

“No, no, don’t.” Wilbur grabs his arm, giving him a small squeeze with a soft smile on his face. “It looks nice. That’s a good look for you, Technoblade.”

Techno squints at him. His expression doesn’t waver in the slightest, smile growing even bigger with unbridled honesty. They don’t have much of a height difference and Wilbur hooks an arm around his shoulder to ruffle his newly dyed hair, splattering pink water droplets everywhere. When he retracts his hand it’s also stained, but that doesn’t deter him as he leads him outside.

“C’mon! Let’s head back. I’ll make sure your funeral is the most brilliant one.”

* * *

  
  


Between fighting and farming, it’s surprisingly the latter that bothers him more when it comes to hair maintenance.

Blood is easier to wash out. Cold water and soap. Maybe hydrogen peroxide, but it’s not like he’s planning murders every day in his home. It leaves a smell too, so Techno knows when he’s missed a spot. He doesn’t get messy with his fights or killings—only amateurs, _casuals—_ would, and the majority of people are too polite to fight dirty and bash his skull and smear his brains onto the arena floor with one tug of his hair.

Mother Nature offers none of that mercy. Sun’s a deadly laser that beats onto his back ten hours a day in the fields, worsening his vision and fading the neon dye into a more faded pink. He’s got dirt _everywhere:_ on his clothes, in his shoes, always in his hair. Mud tracks are all over the front of his doorway, and he’s stopped trying to clean it up, simply guiding Wilbur out of the way to his kitchen while ranting.

“I got you something,” Wilbur interrupts him mid-tangent, rifling through his satchel with gloved hands. The abruptness makes Techno stop and stare before something light and airy falls on top of his head. “There,” Wilbur says, clapping his hands together. “It’s a sun-hat!”

Techno grabs the brim and tilts it down. He feels like a rather pathetic cowboy. “Huh.”

“It’ll keep the sun out of your eyes, no more sunburns on your face, plus your hair should be a bit healthier…” Wilbur trails off. “Oh! You know—I’ve got some extra beanies, if you’d like.”

“I’m not really a hat person, Wilbur.”

He makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, you like crowns more.” He waves a hand with a sigh. “That king shit.”

“Without the government,” Techno says.

“Without the government,” Wilbur repeats. “God, Technoblade.” Before he can add any more, he checks the clock hanging on the wall and turns. “I’m off.”

Techno shrugs. “Bye,” he says, dragging out the last syllable along with him to the front door. Wilbur hesitates and stands right outside. He’s taller than the doorframe, brown jacket almost reaching past his knees and hollow sunken eyes boring holes into his soul. The smile seems foreign on his face. 

“Wear the hat! I can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces when—“

Techno shuts the door. 

* * *

Everyone looks shocked when he arrives onto the SMP, even more when they talk to him. They really shouldn’t. Techno yawns, rubbing his eyes as he roasts a few potatoes over the fire and wrapping his cape tighter. His body’s not used to being in places where the sun won’t shine after months of non-stop farming and Pogtopia just had to be underground, water seeping in through cracks and stalactites hanging overhead. 

“You’re still up.”

It’s not a question. “So are you,” he says, not looking up.

Wilbur steps into the light. His boots make weird little _clicks_ against the stone, against the regular _clatter_ and _splash_ es of the usual cave cacophony. “Yeah.”

Silence. The seat next to him is empty and Wilbur sits, his fingers reaching for Techno’s hair and brushing through, separating the strands. Neither of them say anything aside for the crackle of the flame and the occasional grunt he’ll give when Wilbur’s been too rough. By the end of it, Wilbur tosses a neatly done braid over his shoulder.

“What do you think?”

He’s not talking about it, but Techno pretends anyway. His braid is secured by a scrapped piece of cloth and from the patches on Wilbur’s coat, he knows exactly where it came from. “It works,” he says.

Wilbur stares at him. Embers dance in his eyes, almost eerie against his pale skin and dark hair. He rests a hand on his shoulder, smiling. 

“Get some rest, Technoblade. We’ll need you in the morning.”

Techno can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.

* * *

Fear is genuine, though.

“RUN!”

_Blood for the blood god._

Laughing, Techno aims his crossbow and fires, another wave of explosions and screams sounding. Tubbo’s body remains on the stage behind him, unmoving and smelling strongly of gunpowder as Tommy screams with tears rolling down his cheeks, grabbing a fistful of Techno’s cape and hair and shoving him off the stage. Rude. Doesn’t matter. Techno’s heart pounds loudly in his chest to try and break out, the one thing Tubbo failed to do against the iron bars. Adrenaline courses through his body and fuels him as he continues on his murdering spree. A blur of brown and grey darts over the buildings above but Techno pays him no mind, running and letting his hair whip through the wind.

_Blood for the blood god._

He’s never felt more _alive._

“You _fucking bastard!”_ The words ring out, loud and clear over the explosions. “You _piece of shit! Techno--”_

* * *

_“--blade?”_ Everyone seems to whisper, staring at him in absolute horror. To be fair, he did murder their so-called president once more but the fact that none of them even tried to stop him in the first place is more concerning than the soul sand behind him. Techno’s grateful for his mask as nobody can see the beads of sweat rolling down his face, his face red as the blazing heat of _embarrassment_ burns within him. 

Again, it’s fine. Absolutely fine. The withers spawn like they should. He delivers his _amazing_ monologue that leaves everybody in shock and the hospital. Nobody has to remember his mistake. 

Nor a certain someone’s final death.

Wilbur’s body lays in the middle of the room, bits of stone falling overhead and clattering near his body. Techno can taste metal in his mouth as the stench of blood is overpowering and the sword is still embedded into his brother’s corpse, which he takes out and casts aside.

He should say something, he knows, but the words clog up his throat so he sits in silence. Just him and a dead man. 

Not any different from the dozens he killed that afternoon.

_Blood for the blood god._

Oh yeah. Dried up blood drips down Wilbur’s face, the tips of his mouth curved up into a smile. The dead are easier to read than the living, and Techno smiles as well, ignoring the tear stains on his coat. He tosses his hair back, braid undone.

_Blood for the blood god._

Wilbur’s eyes are open. They stare directly at his face, manic and lifeless. Techno closes them before leaving him for everyone else to find.

The tips of his hair get caught in the pool of blood. Techno washes it out, but it leaves a stain and he ends up hacking the ends off with his sword, his braid undone.

_Is it still good?_ He wants to ask, staring at the locks of hair lying around his feet. _Is_ he _good?_

Somewhere, he can hear someone laughing at him, a hand brushing through his strands.

* * *

  
  


**A B C**

**B A C**

**B C A**

  
  


Techno stares at the diagram and the photos. One page the hair’s separated into three different strands and the next, he’s staring at a completely finished braid.

  
  


**1 2 3**

**2 1 3**

**2 3 1**

  
  


He’s gonna ignore monetization for one moment. 

Fuck his life.

**Secure with elastic--**

He’s gonna secure an elastic around his neck. Techno tosses the book overboard, relishing in the _splash_ it makes when it sinks into the ocean floor. Ha. He grins before the satisfaction contorts into regret as _no the environment--_

His horses neigh. Phil’s trying to coax them as Techno peers into the water, sunset shimmering and glittering over the horizon. If he leans forward more, his hair can almost fall right into the sea. 

_Blue,_ a small part of his mind sneers at him. Techno wants to leap overboard as well. It’s dumb. This whole thing is dumb, as it’s just _hair,_ a dumb thing to get hung up over when at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. 

So when he decides to live in the coldest environment possible, snow surrounding every inch of his house, blizzards occurring every week, Techno pretends not to notice the sad smile on Phil’s face, the racket in his basement, and the murmurs outside his door. 

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


Technoblade’s To Do List:

  1. Fix house
  2. Make farm (?)
  3. Meet up with Phil :)
  4. Change appearance 
  5. Get clout



  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


To-do lists are good. Clear outline of goals. Techno shivers, pulling himself away from the window and sunrise view to rummage through the chests more. He’s covered the floor of his house in all sorts of garbage that he should really throw out and organize but never had the time to, yet with his newfound retirement, he should be able to at some point. Dirt, stone, he pushes those aside and reaches for his weapons, carefully placing them at the bottom of a chest. Foolish, he knows, as there is no such thing as a life of peace, not after what’s happened--not after what _he’s_ done--but it’s not wrong of him to wish for it.

The chest closes with a heavy thud and Techno shudders. From it or the cold, he doesn’t know, but he wraps his coat around his shoulders just in case. It’d be pathetic if he got sick, and god knows nobody would let him live it down. The fabric tangles with his hair and he pushes the latter back, the edges frayed and dry. Not going to get any healthier in this environment, he laments, brushing his fingers through it. Too many tangles. He has a brush, but that’s reserved for his horses.

Speaking of, Carl’s neighing outside. Great. One of the bees must’ve gotten out and now they’re terrorizing the poor thing. Natural selection is a wonderful thing, but Techno isn’t too keen on letting it take its course when it comes to him. Heading down the ladder, he shakes his hair away to look somewhat presentable and approaches the door, only for the neighs to cease.

Bruh.

He should check anyway, though. Techno hops off the ladder just as knocking begins on the other side of the door. Five knocks, then a pause, as if he’s supposed to fill something in before the pattern resumes. Shave and a haircut, two bits--how ironic. Intelligent as he may be, he doubts his horse knows knocking jingles, and Techno finishes in the rest of the melody before swinging the door wide open.

“Oh!” A gasp. “Hello there, Technoblade!” 

“Hello,” he croaks out, throat suddenly dry.

The ghost of his former brother waves a pale hand and Techno sharply inhales.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Technoblade’s To Do List:

  1. Fix house
  2. Make farm (?)
  3. Meet up with Phil :)
  4. Change appearance 
  5. Get clout
  6. Manage Ghostbur



  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I was just passing through and I noticed your house right here. Your horse seemed upset, so I gave him some food. Is that alright?”

It’s rude to stare. It’s rude to stare. But he’s never been one for following societal expectations, and he doubts the ghost minds as he peers at it. The wound leaves a gaping hole in where Wilbur’s stomach would be, the center of his yellow sweater tattered although he hadn’t even been wearing it at the time of his death. Blood stains the frayed edges and Techno can still smell it in the air, sharp and fresh.

“Technoblade?” Ghostbur tilts his head to the side. “Is everything alright--”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Techno says hastily, trying to wave it off. He must be more transparent than the ghost though, as his eyes flit to his wounds.

“I’m terribly sorry! I’ve been trying to find a new sweater but they all seem to suffer the same fate after a while.” He sighs. “I’m beginning to believe I might be cursed!”

He laughs. 

Techno doesn’t, grunting in lieu of a reply and turning back inside. A part of him hopes he’ll leave while the other wonders if he’ll stay and he’s not at all disappointed when Ghostbur follows him in, making a mental note to add him to the list. “You have a very nice home,” the ghost tells him.

Another grunt. Techno is truly eloquence, personified. He searches through a couple of the chests and tosses him a pile of clothing. It doesn’t phase through Ghostbur as he catches them without a second thought.

“What is--”

“You can have ‘em,” he says. Ghostbur holds up a red beanie and places it over his head. “You--someone gave them to me but I don’t really wear any of ‘em--”

Ghostbur gasps, dropping the clothes onto the floor as if they’re lava. “Someone gifted them to you?! Then I shouldn’t--”

Did he not hear-- “They’re not my style.” Ghostbur opens his mouth to protest and Techno raises a hand. “I’m gonna throw these out if you don’t take ‘em,” he warns.

It’s effective. A few minutes later, Ghostbur steps into the room in a fresh sweater and beanie, looking as if he’s stepped right out of an old photo album. He’s smiling, twirling around the room and humming an old show-tune with his arms outstretched. Techno’s already scrutinized his fatal injury so he stares at the ghost’s skin, pale and translucent, like the underside of a potato. One that’s been left too long in the water, however, as the skin flabs around his bones as if it's been mashed up. 

“...style.”

Techno blinks. “What.”

“Your hairstyle,” Wilbur says, tugging at his curls underneath his beanie. “Is that how you keep yours?”

“Uh...yeah? I guess.”

Ghostbur clasps his hands together. “Would you mind if I changed it?’

“Not really?” Not anything too drastic, though. Techno eyes the ax strapped to the ghost’s back. “Don’t cut it.”

“I won’t!” He promises. Bounding over to Techno’s side, he begins brushing through and separating the strands. “What about dying it?” He suggests. “You could dye it a new color—how about blue? Would you like some—“

“No, no, no blue,” he says quickly. “No blue, Ghostbur.”

Ghostbur hums, tossing a lock of hair over another. His hands are cold but it’s not like Techno expected otherwise and lets him continue, trying not to fall asleep. It’s been a while, a while since he’s had—

“Finished!” Ghostbur steps (steps? More like floats—) back, smile plastered on his fading face. “You didn’t say anything so I just braided it.” 

What the fuck. It’s been two seconds. Techno dusts himself off from the floor, turning around to watch the finished braid trail behind him. On its own, his hair would reach the floor but now it stops short of his knees, secured with a bright yellow bow. Weird, he hadn’t seen Ghostbur with anything like that. Then again, he doesn’t know anything about him, not anymore. A quick glance to the corner of the room tells him all he needs to know though, as Wilbur’s old sweater lies there, a perfect outline of a rectangle cut from both sleeves.

He’s already pushing his monetization status and Techno bites the inside of his cheek, fiddling with his hair. He gave Ghostbur like ten new pairs of the exact same sweater, same color and everything, but the mangled one gnaws at him, with its frayed threads and wounds. Throwing it out seems wrong, and although the design is simple and plain it’s not like _he’s_ going to get any use of it anymore. 

“Techno?” Ghostbur waves a hand in front of his face and Techno jolts, which causes the ghost to hastily retract it. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Anyway,” he continues, floating a little up. Techno’s ceiling is too high, something he worried over while building, but now with his new paranormal sibling, it’s not as bad as he thought. “I was looking at some of the old photos you had and your hair was braided a lot. You always had it like that, and with your cape and crown.” True to his word, both articles of clothing are on Techno at the moment. “What do you think?”

“I—“ Techno hears the words, but his mind is focused on the sweater dilemma and busy trying to recover from the absolute shock of his new hairdo. He spent weeks agonizing over the instructions in a goddamn book when it’d been this easy. “Yeah.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Ghostbur flies to the old sweater and before Techno can say anything, he tears out even _more_ strips of cloth, holding them over the fireplace for a split second before plopping them into Techno’s hands. _What—_ “You can tie your hair with these,” he explains. “I don’t have any use for them anymore.”

* * *

  
  


“You know what they said? They said I looked pretty damn good. What do you think of that, huh, Technoblade? What did they tell you?”

Theseus never shuts the fuck up. 

Techno grits his teeth as Tommy continues, digging his nails into the wooden ladders. Ghostbur floats down after them unperturbed, stopping to glance around the room. Tommy’s room, which is under _his_ house. The brat is lucky Techno doesn’t have TNT on him.

“Technoblade? Hello? Not responding because you’re a pussy—“

“Tommy, my monetization,” Techno says exasperatedly. He brushes a few strands off his face and stares at him before Tommy goes silent. 

Not for long, though. _“Woah,_ since when do you know how to braid?” He scrambles to Techno’s side, tugging on the main braid. 

“Since forever.” Techno tries pushing him off but raccoons are grabby and Tommy doesn’t look like he’s letting go unless the Nether freezes over. 

“Then how come you have it now?” 

“Because I’m an adult and I can do what I want.”

“What’s that supposed to mean—“

Techno glances down to what’s possibly rendered him speechless and stares as Tommy holds up the end of the braid, where the fading yellow bow is tied. His gaze pans to his wrist, where the rest of the sweater-scraps-now-hair-ties lay. 

Of course, Ghostbur chooses this exact moment to speak. “I braided it!” He says.

“You—“ Seeing Tommy struggling for words would be funny in any other situation. “Why—“

“I needed a change,” he says. Ghostbur nods in approval, thank _god_ he has him on his side for once. “I think we all need one, anyway.”

The voices agree with him. Tommy scrunches his face up and he can see the gears turning in his mind. Maybe that was too soon. Wrong thing to say. Techno does the one thing he knows he’s good at—averting the conversation elsewhere. 

“Do you want to braid your hair too?”

“No! My hair is fine!” Back to normal. Tommy grins and shakes his head. “Too much work—“

“Not really.” Techno unties the ribbon and lets his hair fall, patting the ground behind him. “You can braid mine. Ghostbur will help you.”

“Yes! I’d be happy to help!”

Hesitation. Doubt. Common emotions, especially after what he’s been through, and Techno watches as Tommy fidgets, seeming to grasp with the very act of being asked to do something that’s so...mundane. It’s equal parts amusing and saddening. Heroes deserve days off too--it’s just that they get fewer opportunities to. Techno waits a minute before Tommy sits down and begins untangling the strands, Ghostbur guiding him.

“How is it?” He asks once the two of them have let go and cheered.

“See for yourself,” Ghostbur tells him, ruffling Tommy’s hair. 

Techno doesn’t need to. He can already feel the finished braid, some parts loose and slipping as he shakes his head side to side. Sloppy, it’ll be undone by tomorrow, but from the proud grins on each of their faces, that’s the least of his worries. 

“Uh, thanks,” Techno says, surprised at how much he truly means it. “Thank you.”

Ghostbur nods. “Of course!” Techno tosses his hair back and studies himself in the reflection of the window glass. Tommy and Ghostbur high five in the background as he ruffles his hair, proud smiles on both their faces, and for the first time, Techno doesn’t have to doubt it one bit as he returns it. “That’s a good look on you, Technoblade.”

So it is.

  
  


So it is.


End file.
